The Golden Oath
The air in the sub-basement of the St. Jude’s Convent for the Aged was not merely cold; it was a physical weight, a dense, gelid suspension of dust and stale incense that settled into the lungs and stayed there. Elias Thorne sat in the corner, his legs crossed, the rough wool of his cardigan scratching against skin that had grown thin and translucent over the last decade. He was seventy-two, a...
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